And as it turns out, he’s right.
Two weeks later,on the dot, Heather knocks on the door to my dorm apartment. I hadn’t been expecting her, and strangely enough, when she sees me, her face falls.
“Oh,” she says. “Is, um, Mason here?”
Why is she looking for Mason? She hardly talks to him, even in the lab. She seems to hate him, based on the comments she’s made.
“No,” I say. “He’s probably at the library.”
“Oh,” she says again. And then her face crumples.
“Heather…” I follow her to our futon, where she collapses into deep, wracking sobs. She buries her face in her small hands, and I rub her shoulders to comfort her. Comforting Heather is not a chore. I feel sleazy, though, about using the fact that she’s sad as an excuse to touch her. Then I feel like a tool for feeling sleazy.
“Landon broke up with me,” she blurts out between tears.
Landon broke up with her? The asshole boyfriend is out of the picture? Holy shit, that’s the best news I’ve heard all year. Except…
Why the hell did she come here looking forMason?
Oh.Oh.
I get it now. She’s looking for a little rebound hook-up. And the first person she thought of was Mason.Mason. Not me. I’m not even on her short list.
Shit, if Mason were here instead of me, they’d be in our bedroom hooking up right now. Well, maybe not. Mason wouldn’t do that to me. But just the fact that it was even a remote possibility makes me furious.
Mason’s the biggest asshole in the class, and Heather wanted to hook up with him. There’s probably a lesson in that. If I want Heather, I should be a jerk to her. Being a nice guy is getting me nowhere.
But I’m not a jerk. I’m a nice guy who’s never done a bad thing in my whole life.
Still, Mason’s right about one thing. It’s time to grow a pair. So I lean forward, and before I have a chance to chicken out or overthink things, I kiss her.
“Abe?” She gasps for a second before she melts against me.
And here’s the shocking part… She doesn’t slap me. She doesn’t pull away either. Against all odds, she’s kissing me back. She’s surprised, but it turns out she wants me too. Not as much as I want her, but no pressure there.
Just like that, she’s mine.
18
Nobody at schoollikes Patrice much, but we all have to see her. It’srequired.
Patrice is in her early forties with brown hair in a pixie cut and long legs. She’s not bad looking, but I don’t find her remotely attractive. Her office consists of several shelves of alternating books and dolls. (Why dolls? We’re not children. I swear to God, if we do any role-playing with Raggedy Ann, I am out of here.) She has a small desk in the corner of the room, but she sits in a chair that faces a sky-blue sofa. When I sit down on the sofa, I feel myself sinking into the cushions to the point where it might take me a good minute or two to get back on my feet. Maybe that’s the point.
“I want you to put yourself at ease,” Patrice says. “I want this to be a safe environment for you.”
I wish I were anywhere but here.
“Tell me, Abe,” Patrice says. “How has school been going so far?”
“Uh, fine.”
“Just fine? Not stressing you out?”
“I’m not ondrugs, if that’s what you’re asking.”
Patrice raises an eyebrow, but who are we kidding? That's why I'm here. I'm here because there is a rampant drug problem at the school, and they don't want anyone else overdosing this year.
But I don't do drugs. I would never. I don't even drink, for Christ’s sake. Coffee is my worst vice.
